The Path to Redemption
by The Nightingale's Song
Summary: EC, slightly AU. What if Raoul had not escaped Erik's house by the lake that fateful night? Note: not Raoul bashing, just a different perspective. A blend of Leroux, ALW, and Kay.
1. Prologue

**The Path to Redemption**

**Foreword**

This story is based on a mixture of different versions of the story; mostly Leroux characterizations, though the performance of_ Don Juan Triumphant_ follows that of the stage play, not the movie, as the opera house does not burn down. Also, there are slight spiritual undertones in this piece (Fate, etc.), so if that is not your cup of tea, please find another story.

**Prologue**

Her lips lingered on his a second time, far longer and far deeper than the first. For a moment, he allowed himself to lapse into the illusion; he allowed himself to believe she actually wanted this; that she kissed him simply to kiss him, not to save her boy, or herself, or to play games with his mind.

Had she kissed him under normal circumstances, or as normal circumstances could be when he was involved, he would have been overjoyed, and thoroughly shocked. Now both had faded away when he realized the true motive of her actions, leaving only bitter disappointment in their wake.

She pulled away and looked into his eyes, within hers a mixture of uncertainty, fear, awe and hope.

To Erik, they seemed to say, "I have kissed you. Let him go now…I have given you what you wanted, now give me what I want." _Which is anything but you…_

"Fair trade," they whispered. "Fair trade…"

_No!_

Anger at being manipulated! Anger at being _wrong_, and being caught by her! Anger for regretting any of this, anger for feeling, anger for ever seeing her to begin with.

Not anger.

Rage.

He left his body. He was a spectator suddenly.

And in one swift motion, one flex of the muscles and one pull, the Viscount de Chagny was dead.

He was killed by the Punjab lasso.


	2. Chapter One

_**Part One**_

**Chapter One**

Christine saw the panic in his eyes, followed by abrupt emptiness, and looking back she could never be quite certain when she began to scream, that horrible, blood-curdling scream of anguish, grief, rage and disbelief -- one which had been mounting silently but surely since her fiancé had reached the house by the lake.

Her vision -- indeed her mind -- was fogged with her myriad of emotions as she stumbled over to the broken body of her childhood sweetheart, the frigid water of the lake enclosing her up to her waist. The ornate wedding dress clung to her legs, making it difficult to tread through the water, but she scarcely noticed as she traveled to the vicomte.

_She had to reach him before it was too late!_

But when she wrapped her arms around his now limp body, and stared into those crystalline blue eyes, once so vivid and youthful, now lifeless, she knew she was too late. She'd been too late since the fire of rage had roared to life in Erik's eyes.

She'd been too late from the very moment Raoul had entered her dressing room the night of _Hannibal_, when she'd told him of the Angel of Music teaching her. From that moment on, it had been too late for him, for them. She'd helped kill Raoul, just the same as if her hands had tugged the rope along with Erik's.

_He should have never found me…_

She was barely aware when she began to slide downward into the lake in agony and shock, sobs racking her weak body.

Meanwhile, Erik watched it all from the banks.

And for the first time in all the murders he had committed, something hot and bothersome had inched its way beneath his hide, something which kept prodding him whenever he tried to forget and ignore, something which filled his eyes with tears and colored his world with shame. Guilt, it was. For the first time, Erik felt something as human as guilt.

It mounted as he watched the poor, broken girl wail with anguish at the feet of her dead lover, each of her dreams being reduced to nothingness one by one, _by his hand._

He had made her feel this emptiness, this sorrow. He had killed her happiness. He himself had slain any chance that she may ever love him, crushed it beneath his merciless rage as if it were nothing more than a pesky fly. He had single-handedly destroyed all he'd lived for the past months, in more ways than one.

No one to blame but himself...

How easy it would be to end it here. One flick of a knife, a few moments of patience, then the blessed darkness he'd desired for so long. He could laugh at how devastatingly simple -- and welcome! -- it would be, on this, the day he'd truly placed his soul beyond any repair, or any forgiveness, from the one woman who'd ever given him a chance.

There was a time when he would have committed the most heinous of sins without second thought. But that was when no one needed him.

Reality settled with powerful force. Christine, by his hand, now had no one on earth. No mother nor father nor siblings. No close friends. No warm, comforting fiancé who would graciously whisk her to wherever she fancied, his arms never leaving her.

Christine had no one, that was, save for a deranged masked man, who was once her angel, her teacher, her unrequited lover. Erik would yet again take on another form: her only hope.

Even had he not just ripped everything away from her, the girl was not ready to stand on her own. Though some may have overlooked it, Erik had known since he'd first seen her that this girl was constantly reaching out, begging for someone to guide her, whomever it may be.

And now it was to be him...

Beside this, if left behind with the body, the crowd would, albeit insanely, assume that Christine had committed the crime, and without anyone to fully be able to say otherwise, for no one else had witnessed the events which unfolded after the kidnapping during _Don Juan Triumphant_, Christine could be arrested, hanged, even.

A master of the art, Erik pushed all emotions away, far away to be dealt with when he had the time. One quick glance around his home. An entire material inventory of his life rested there: relics from Persia, his entire collection of personal compositions, his handsome piano which he'd fittingly paid a handsome price for. Everything he'd ever owned and everything he'd ever worked for, left to the mercy of a bloodthirsty, ever-approaching crowd.

He stiffened his resolve.

_It's the price you must pay for breaking this child, coward,_ spat his conscience. _You're in debt to her now. Keep her safe. Think not of yourself. Leave now, a moment later and the marauders will arrive._

"Christine," he called stonily. It almost frightened him how emotionless and controlled his tone was in comparison to his mind. "We haven't much time."

Unsurprisingly, she did not stir. She did not even acknowledge that he had spoken. From utmost respect to complete lack of recognition.

_She gives you more than you deserve._

He crossed the waters and pulled Christine mechanically to her feet, as he knew she would never leave of her own accord, more content in mourning her lost lover for eternity.

"We must go."

Through the catacombs they escaped as behind them the mob discovered the vicomte's corpse, eyes and flesh cold, and Erik's residence of many years. The sight of the body was met with many shouts and shocked expressions.

"The Vicomte de Chagny?" everyone breathed. "Such a young man! Bright future! What evil has done this?"

They would see the intricate way the Punjab was tethered to the ceiling, where it could be tucked safely out of sight until a whim and a snap of his fingers summoned it. They would see the magnificent house by the lake, its heavily armored door foolishly left ajar, and they would simply stare in puzzlement and a bit of wonder as they pondered who had taken the time to build such a house five stories underground, and why. But they would not venture in just yet. Everyone was far too distracted by the vicomte.

But Erik, unaware of the reality of these events, was lost in a torrent of regret and woe as he settled Christine in a small safe-hold chamber, a fortunate foresight of his when he'd first explored the catacombs of the opera. It was nothing more than a small, unadorned room, uncomfortable and stoic. However, to reach it, one would be required to navigate a complicated system passageways known only to Erik, and then, if they reached that far without becoming lost, decode a cryptic lock Erik had designed to secure himself in case of a catastrophe such as this one.

They would stay there for the night, until the public retreated to its bed. Then they would run. But for the moment, he watched Christine lay upon the stone ground, her back facing him as she sobbed, at first, then simply stared in silence.

_I'm sorry, angel..._


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

Christine stared at his cloak covered back which faced her as he gathered money and other such important documents, tucking them securely into the folds of his garments. She could swear she saw the glint of a dagger as well.

_More killing?_

Christine had no idea of the hour, though she figured the dead of the night, as she had fallen into a hollow, deep sleep after some time of laying upon the stone ground. It was the most blessed slumber she'd ever experience, offering her a blessed, emotionless break from the bleak reality.

She stubbornly refused to allow herself to think of Raoul, or any of the rest of the previous day for that matter. She simply could not let herself realize that she now dwelled with a killer. Of course she'd known of Erik's previous sins, but she'd failed to see the deep seriousness of it all. She'd only understood far too late, when his murderous hand affected her in a most unwelcome way.

The logical part of her mind had taken charge over her emotions. Her body understood she couldn't take the brunt of the emotional trauma at the moment, and instead her thoughts consisted of the mob, and what they'd done with Raoul's body, and what they'd made of Erik's home and their simultaneous disappearance. Where there search parties? Was the news now public? It chilled her how objectively these thoughts entered her mind, and the cold logic she used to decipher the open questions.

When she spoke she could barely recognize her voice. Once so warm and light, now cold, ragged, and sullen. Her voice expressed the emotions she would not allow herself to feel. "What time is it?"

He actually started, though at the sound of her voice, or that she was actually speaking, Christine was not sure. She could almost laugh; Erik, always moving so gracefully and silently, was always the one to startle her. His keen ears and sharp alertness made it near impossible to enter a room without him knowing.

"Four o'clock, I surmise." He had a terrible, fierce urge to apologize to her, spill his tears and allow her to see how pained and regretful he was for ruining her, to beg for her forgiveness. But he did not. No, he remained stiff and unmoving, mechanically supplying his person with all they'd need for a flee from Paris.

Based on what he had seen in a brief sojourn from their stone chamber to collect the money and necessary papers from his bedroom, the mob had more or less raided his home and taken Chagny's body to the authorities. Erik thanked the gods that they'd overlooked the miniature casket filled with precious jewels and coins which easily could have made each of them a substantially rich man. No doubt religious wariness of the occult, or perhaps a bit of pure superstition, had kept them away from the curiously disguised safe.

Erik had no doubt they'd left minds filled with incorrect theories of his and Christine's whereabouts, as they'd left no clues, save the boy's body. By morning the whole of the city would know of them, however, and be on the look-out. Which was why...

"We must leave now, Christine."

"Now?"

"Yes. Any later, we'll be in danger.

Her first impulse was to ask what sort of danger, but it came to her instantly and she was glad she'd held her tongue. Raoul's body. Of course. Likely, the entire city would soon think that she'd been an accomplice to Erik in his murder, or worse, that she'd committed the crime single-handedly.

Her and Raoul's engagement had been, of course, largely kept under wraps. It would not have done well for his siblings if the public had known Raoul was seriously courting a mere chorus girl, and not simply employing her to satisfy momentary pleasures, in similar practice as Phillipe. The public would have been positively _baffled_ to know that within six months, Le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny had fully intended on marrying one Christine Daae, opera singer and daughter of a violinist.

But Christine couldn't help lamenting.

_If only they knew!_

Then there would be no inkling that she'd had anything to do with Raoul's death...yet in a way, she supposed she did. But she simply could not bear to think such things now.

She rose to her feet unsteadily, her legs shaky from emotional drain and several hours unmoving against cold stone. Instinctively she brushed her skirt off and smoothed her curls, realizing with no small amount of displeasure how low cut and revealing Erik had designed the wedding dress.

_Lascivious beast._

A part of her took comfort in calling him such things, if only in her mind, yet another part felt deeply remorseful and disrespecting -- a part of her hated him, with the most scarlet, passionate hate she'd felt through her entire eighteen years, and yet another part still saw him as her strict, didactic. awe-inspiring mentor who'd taught her all he knew of music. Well, almost all of it. She was quite certain she'd never be able to grasp how one could pour such emotion and ardor into a piece of music.

Christine grew angry with herself. How could she think of this man's capacity for musical talent and his teaching abilities when he'd just killed the only person on earth who ever made her feel safe?

Her rage rose once more and she found she could treat him with a cold detachment. "Lead the way," she implored curtly.

Never could he fathom how a voice once so warm could flood ice into his heart.


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: **Happy New Year to all! I hope you are enjoying my story, and thank you for the lovely reviews. The support is much appreciated in the unveiling of this slightly controversial phic. Without further ado, chapter three.

**Chapter Three**

She had not spoken to him the entire cab ride. Nor could he blame her. Even he finally grasped that this time, he'd gone to far. This time, it was unforgivable. This time, he was truly deserving of the name "beast," or "monster."

It was not so much that the viscount was different from the others he'd killed in the past, though that was true. He rarely killed the rich, usually only poor, dirty men in self defense or during his time in the khanum's employ. Never had he killed to hurt another; never had he even considered this possibility.

To him, it had become a morbid, monotonous routine. Accosted? Murder. Followed? Kill. He'd never enjoyed it until the khanum and Persia had taught him to, and even then the small voice of his Catholic upbringing had told him all along it was wrong. But that voice wasn't loud enough. Surely, he would never have pulled out of that life of sin if it hadn't been for Nadir.

But even Nadir had failed to mention not only how the murders would affect Erik's soul, but how they could affect the lives of others. He'd been a selfish man in his killing, a horrible man, not even bothering to distinguish a father or grandfather who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, from a true low life with foul intentions whom no one cared about.

And now, with just one more murder, he'd hurt, possibly indelibly, the only woman he'd ever given his heart to. Once more he had deceived her, hurt her, betrayed her, and ripped her innocence away. And he'd ever thought she could love him, or even dreamt it? She'd have to be a goddamn saint, perhaps even a bit of a fool for that. Now, simple forgiveness was too much to ask.

He wished for something to say, a meaningless word, even to simply open communications once more, so perhaps eventually he'd be able to voice the apology which now was burning a hole in his soul. Funny, he'd never felt the true desire to apologize to anyone before. But now...it was different. It was all different. His very outlook on life had changed with her kiss and with the viscount's death. Erik had hardly ever believed anything could ever truly change a person, that people were all selfish and evil to the core, including himself, until he'd met Christine...and until now.

Her harsh voice interrupted his thoughts, but he'd been so lost, he'd not heard her words.

"What?" he asked clumsily.

"Where are we going?"

"A train station outside the city," he said carefully.

"And from there?"

He paused with the horrific realization that he'd planned no further than the train station. "Wherever you wish," he replied with gross impulse.

She looked at him incredulously and said nothing for some time. "Sweden, then," she finally murmured into the dim interior of the carriage. "I wish to go home."

-------------

In Paris, Inspector Gaston Mifroid, Chief of Parisian Police, took his breakfast in his study as his wife continued to doze. Mifroid was usually a handsome man, middle age only bringing him distinguishing features; well-placed wrinkles, streaks of gray in his russet brown hair, though it was slowly coming to be the other way around. Mifroid did not mind, however, for as he aged, he only became more efficient in his work, his mind growing sharper with each case solved, his pride growing with each rightful arrest.

Usually in the mornings, he was in a brisk mood, strong and eager for a hardy breakfast before setting off to work. This morning, though, he was a bit weak and out of sorts, having got little sleep the previous night. All night he'd been tortured with the unanswered details of the murder of the Viscount de Chagny, along with the disappearance of Christine Daae the singer and the mysterious masked man who so many claimed to be the infamous "Opera Ghost."

_I wasn't aware ghosts could kidnap and kill_, thought Mifroid wryly, a thin smile creeping its way to his lips. But it quickly disappeared as he considered this fact. How the bloody hell could he track what people believed to be a _ghost?_ And what was he, anyway? Some sort of madman? A long evasive criminal? Or a true specter?

Mifroid could not help but cross himself at this thought. A strict religious upbringing had taught him the supernatural was not a force to be meddled with, and certainly not one to be mocked. The face didn't help, either. A birth defect, mark of the devil? A result of an unfortunate accident? Or simply one of the many skins of the Opera Ghost?

Mifroid did not know, and what was worse, he had no idea where to go about finding out. He'd already been to the opera the previous night, had a look at the viscount's body and the spectacular house by the opera's lake no one had known about. This, however, gave no insight as to what this murderer was, or to his motives, or the whereabouts of Christine Daae and his connection to her. Raoul de Chagny was dead, as was his brother, the only two people who could possibly been able to give input as to the relationship of Daae and the ghost. The only one available, now, who knew of the ghost was old Madame Giry, whom Mifroid had already questioned thoroughly a few days back.

Superstition was always thick among theater folk, but especially those of the Opera Garnier with their obsession of the Ghost. It seemed to be all they spoke of aside from their work. If one were to visit the Opera, Mifroid was quite certain the Ghost would find his way into the conversation at least once, no matter what the nature of the call. His name seemed to be whispered by the very walls themselves. It was believed, of course that the Ghost was immortal, so Mifroid had no doubt that the majority of the Garnier's staff believed the whole investigation to be a waste of time.

"If the Ghost wants her, he'll have her, and there'll be no more said of it," he'd heard a ballet rat say to her companion as he passed.

But he could not simply give up.

Mifroid pushed his half-eaten breakfast away. He simply could not dine while so many questions floated about in his mind. It made him feel as though he were not doing his job, and that was never something he could bear.

He rose to dress. He would return to the opera, see if there was anyone else who knew anything at all. This would not remain a mystery for long.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Once more, Christine slept as Erik watched. They'd arrived just after sunrise, and the station was just opening. Erik had purchased two tickets to Stockholm, pretending that Christine was his wife and they were vacationing. The clerk had taken issue with his mask, apparently, for he suspiciously had questioned the whereabouts of their luggage. Erik had smoothly interjected that they were sent separately and were already en route to Sweden. The man seemed to accept this response and had arranged two tickets to Sweden via a comfortable sleeper cab, one bed, though this mattered not, since Erik could not have slept if he wished to.

The train left at 8 o'clock. Erik had stiffly persuaded Christine to take a bit of breakfast, as she hadn't even in over twenty four hours and was looking a bit ashen. She'd grudgingly agreed and to his surprise downed two pieces of toast with marmalade, three strips of bacon, and scrambled eggs along with a goblet of orange juice. All the while she'd glance up intermittently, each time her eyes saying something different. First, "you insufferable bastard," then, "what do you suppose we shall do upon reaching Sweden?" and then, halfway through her meal, "Why on earth aren't you eating anything, instead just sitting here watching me make a pig of myself? Surely you must be starved as well."

He cleared his throat. "I do not eat often, and certainly not in the presence of others."

She looked positively irked at his easy ability to read her thoughts. She said nothing for a while, taking a few more overly dainty bites of her toast. "Foolishness. A man ought to eat. It's necessary, after all."

She spoke to him as she would any other man she was in casual acquaintance with, albeit coldly, but this time with no lacing of utmost respect or tinge of fear. Such a heartless deed had finally humanized him in her eyes, degraded him. To her, he was nothing more than a cold beast of a man, though with a damnably beautiful mind and voice. That she could never deny.

"I am not like other men," he said quietly, a ray of hope shining through at her different, equal tone, and the fact that she spoke to him at all.

"Yes," she replied glacially. "I have seen that. Please excuse me." And she rose from her seat, leaving Erik's hopes to crash back to earth.

And after a bit, he'd followed her path from the dining cab back to their own, where he found her retired upon the bed, though whether she was asleep or not, he could not tell.

He was angry with himself. Or perhaps even a bit angry with her, for no longer fearing him. He was a formidable specimen, to be sure. Well over six feet tall, usually dressed in all black, with an impressive intellect to boot, Erik was the sort to command the attention of each person in a room, if he so desired. And what was more, he knew it. This was not even to mention his mask, which covered the majority of his face, leaving no open chink into his emotions or thoughts. He intimidated grown men.

Now he could not frighten this slight bit of a girl? Christine was of average height, and of slender build. Much smaller than he himself. One would think, intrinsically, she would fear him. Why, suddenly, did Christine treat him as if he were less than she?

Of course, he could not say he did not deserve it, not in the slightest. It simply surprised him that she had grown the backbone and acquired the gumption to treat him in this manner. Even before she'd seen his face she had treated him with careful respect and tact. Even in all her patronization and lies, she had still feared him. And now? Nothing.

The killing had changed them both, it seemed. Somehow, his horrible crime had placed them on an equal plane. She no longer saw him as omnipotent after seeing him commit an awful crime. He was nothing more than a common criminal to her. He no longer saw her as a meek mouse, not with the way she'd regarded him.

Christine had always been an interesting puzzle to him. She was strong, willful, and independent, yet at the same time, always a child to him, always yearning for guidance. A walking paradox. It had intrigued him, and still did. As much as he hated himself for it, one glance at her sleeping form upon the bed, and lust roared to life within him, but beneath the lust dwelled a respectful layer of awe, and respect, and _love._

_Love,_ spat his conscience. _You've no right to love her. You've ruined her, fool. Protect her. Nothing more._

He knew in his heart, this voice was correct.

_Protect her...nothing more. She will never forgive you..._

_...nor should she._


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Miford massaged his temples for what seemed to be the twentieth time that morning alone. Three wasted, unproductive days of clues which all led to dead ends. He was no closer to solving the case than he was when he first learned of it.

He'd been through many futile questionings with nearly single one of the Opera's staff, and all he'd gained from each was a piece of Ghost lore, sometimes new, usually something he'd already heard, until he was sure he knew all there was to know of the legend, not that he believed a bit of it. Occasionally there was some judgement of Daae's character or a bit of her history, but otherwise, no one had anything to offer. Whether they really did not know or simply didn't want to contribute to what seemed to be a pointless investigation, he did not know.

The only difference between now and then was that now the general public was well versed in the matter, the story having been retold several times on newspaper headlines, and wanted posters having been distributed throughout the city.

He'd been in the midst of a third questioning with Antoinette Giry when the feeling came along. The feeling usually showed up in major cases, especially complicated ones with many unanswered questions, like this one. The feeling was a warning that if he didn't take a break, he would likely never solve his current case, nor any more thereafter. He had no doubt that the feeling had saved his sharp mind many a time, so when it surfaced during his interrogation, he had the good sense to heed it.

Politely, he'd told Madame Giry he was in dire need of a bit of a break, and she'd readily agreed, though he could not help but hear her mumbling under her breath, something about interrupting at inappropriate moments. Miford was never one to pay disrespect, least of all to elders, but from past experience, a recess was called for.

He graciously took a proffered shot of whiskey and drained it, followed by a cup of herbal tea. He always found it useful for refocusing his brain cells and calming his body.

Halfway through his tea, Monsieur Richard appeared in the doorway with a slip of paper in hand. "This came to the office," he said, a bit disdainfully. "Addressed to you."

Richard couldn't say he liked Miford, nor this whole affair, to be true. Terrible publicity for the opera house, promoting the idea that madmen ran wild within the fine alabaster walls of the grand structure. Though, Richard couldn't argue that after the opera took one day of closure to reboot, the crowds had never been thicker.

_Terrible publicity...but publicity nonetheless._

Richard was usually a sensible man, but given the events of the past few weeks, he couldn't help but let himself fall into the popular speculation of a ghost. How else could the kidnapping, the letters, Box Five, and the house be explained? What else could have built such a grand structure beneath everyone's noses and never be caught? Certainly no mortal man.

Miford snatched the telegraph from Richard's hand.

"Opera Garnier Managers, care of Inspector Miford," it was addressed.

The body read: "Three days ago early in the morning, a masked man and a pretty woman came to my station and purchased two tickets to Stockholm, Sweden. Their descriptions match those on the wanted posters. They are almost unmistakably who you seek. Their train should be arriving in Stockholm this afternoon. From there, I know not where they are bound. -- Monsieur Jacques Grinot"

A wide grin split Miford's tired face. Richard gazed at him curiously.

"Inspector?"

"Monsieur, I think we may finally have a lead."

-------------

After three days of hearty meals and restful nights, Christine knew that she was in excellent physical form. A bit of color had returned to her cheeks and her hair had recovered a bit of its sheen. She only wish her mental state would match.

Christine thanked God for the comfortable, satin-dressed bed she'd been alloted the past few days. It was her escape from her wretched circumstances, her medium between the hell that was life and the emotionless yet somehow, at the same time, blissful world of sleep. She'd retire shortly after dinner and rise only moments before breakfast was to be cleared away. She knew it could not be healthy to sleep so many hours regularly, but she was also quite certain that without her surplus of sleep, she'd surely be a wreck both physically and mentally by now.

In her waking hours, Christine agonized over where she was going, what she would do when they reached Sweden, what Erik would do, what would happen if they were caught...her worries grew with each passing hour.

When Erik had asked where she wished to go, Sweden had been her impulsive, completely honest answer. She had been longing to return ever since her father had died, and she could not help but feel a bit of joy in returning to the land she loved so, even in the face of all this ugliness and pain. However, could a place spoken in pure desire truly be the wisest, safest option for them? Christine had been surprised when Erik had agreed without a word more on the matter.

_Erik..._

Mostly, he'd been staying at bay, which for the most part was a very wise move. The stronger part of her had no further desire than to tear him limb from limb whenever he neared her, and yet...

The part of her that wept was not so furious. The part of her that wept was not so brave. The part of her that wept, though hidden, was sometimes so full of fear and grief that she had to remove herself from the room to keep from begging Erik to take her in his arms and hold her and coddle her and tell her everything would be alright.

Was it so much that it was Erik, the person? No, not necessarily. Though Erik had destroyed her, he was, ironically, the very last person she had in the world, and the frightened, insecure part of her had every intention of holding on to him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

But she could not do that. Her pride -- her honor, her wrath -- would not allow it.

She readied herself for departure as Erik waiting patiently in the backdrop. They would be arriving quite soon, and she'd once again set foot on the soil which begot her.

When she'd deemed herself presentable, she turned wordlessly to Erik and nodded for him to lead the way to the main compartment. They needed to wait only five or so minutes before the locomotive slowed and the doors were opened revealing a station full of bustling Swedes. Christine followed Erik out of the station to the street where he began to hail a taxi.

Gazing around, she felt her eyes fill with tears. Although she was not from the city, these streets were just as familiar to her as the country plains. Here, she'd gone to the market with her mother before she'd died, memories which she could hardly recall but in brief images and scents. Here, she and her father had retraced the very same path she and Erik had just taken when they'd begun their life of travels.

Finally, she felt a sense of belonging.

_This is home._


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

Miford retold his story for the fifth time to the third teller at the train station. He was losing his temper quickly, for no one seemed to grasp the urgency of his situation.

This teller was obviously the most inexperienced of the lot, as if the staff had given up on trying to appease him and sent this man out, not even caring anymore.

"It is _imperative_, my good monsieur," he repeated for the thousandth time, "simply _imperative _that I get a train to Stockholm _tonight._"

The teller visibly winced at his strained emphasis, and his eyes darted down to the impatient inspector's clenched fist upon the counter. The teller swallowed hard as he envisioned that fist crushing into his nose with one more false word.

"I'm sorry, monsieur," he said, carefully concealing his desperation, "there are no trains heading east scheduled to arrive until Thursday at noon. There is nothing we can do for you tonight. My deepest apologies."

Miford turned away in exasperation, his patience evaporating at that very instant.

"Book me a ticket for Thursday, then," he barked as he stalked away.

_Imbecile._

"Yes, Monsieur Inspector. Consider it done," the clerk called feebly after him.

-------------

Christine lay peacefully in her bed at the bed and breakfast as the grandfather clock in the hall way chimed eleven o'clock. Such luxury she'd been living in since they'd arrived in Sweden, though she knew it only distracted her from the dire matters at hand.

They'd been booked separate rooms this time, so Christine rarely saw Erik, save occasionally looking to the sea as the sunset. Once or twice he had dined with her, though he'd eaten much less and said little. It was strange though, for those days when he did keep her company were the ons when she'd been feeling the most lonely.

As far as she could tell, the news of Raoul's death and her disappearance had not reached as far as Sweden. Perhaps it never would. Perhaps no one would care in her corner of the world. She simply did not know. It all depended upon how determined the Paris police were to track them down.

So as Christine lazed about and ignored the emotions which constantly threatened to bubble forth and overtake her, the world continued to turn, even despite of her lack of acknowledgment. And of the pair, Erik was the only one to take notice.

And he came to thank Fate that he had. Since arriving in Sweden, he'd felt it wise to keep up with the local newspaper, at least as well as he could with what little Swedish he knew. Thusly, each day in the morning and evening, he'd take a jaunt to the general store down the street, check the papers, and assuming all was in order, return to the bed and breakfast. So far, everything had been in order. Until the the third day.

He was always careful to scan the entire newspaper, as he doubted French runaways would make the front page of a Swedish paper. But this morning, he did not have to look far to realize he and Christine were in danger.

Not quite the headline story, but just below it, read in bold letters: "French delinquents thought to have fled to Stockholm." Erik's first instinct was to drop the paper, flee to the bed and breakfast to warn Christine, and escape before one of the townspeople noticed the article. However, that would not quite be practical, nor inconspicuous, so Erik forced himself to read the rest of the story in a calm, casual manner.

By the end of it, he'd learned Inspector Miford of the Parisian Police would be en route to Stockholm as of Thursday. Erik quickly did the math: that would give them precisely four days, one before Miford left Paris, then three for him to reach Stockholm. Surely by then suitable arrangements could be made to secure himself and Christine. Surely.

Without further thought, he disposed of the paper and set off for the bed and breakfast. Thankfully, they had very little to pack. He'd allowed Christine to purchase a few new frocks to travel with, as well as a few essential toiletries and a fresh chemise. Other than that and his papers, they had nothing else. He himself had had his outfit laundered rather than purchasing new clothing just yet.

Erik frantically went over all this in his mind as he knocked upon her room's door.

After being granted a sleepy verbal affirmation, Erik burst into the bedroom. "Christine," he began, uncomfortably reminded of the last time he'd pulled her from familiar surroundings. "We must go..."

He could not meet her eyes.


	8. Chapter Seven

_**Part Two**_

**Chapter Seven**

Benjamin Persson, respected wealthy merchant in a small sea town south of Kalmat, rose just as the sun began to peak over the horizon of the sea, as he did every morning. Making his way to the kitchen, he laid some bacon in a skillet and began to fry it before pouring himself a glass of the milk his stable boy, Karl, had procured just that morning. Karl tended to the cow, Mary Lou, and the horse, Lightening. Otherwise, Benjamin and his wife had no other help, though not because they did not have the monetary means; it was simply because the couple preferred doing things for themselves...preferred keeping to themselves in general, for that matter.

In the nine months since they'd settled into their small cottage, scarcely anyone had bothered them, save a few farmers and fellow merchants who were interested in a bit of trade with Benjamin. Oddly, however, each time the three different men attempted this, Karl answered and told them his master had nothing to trade at the time. The neighbors had no choice but to assume this Persson was simply antisocial...that, or a fraud. The goodnatured folk of the small town had the good grace to believe the former.

Benjamin could hardly be bothered with the antics of his neighbors, and had instructed Karl straightaway to always answer the door with the same response. He knew there must have been gossip spread about him, for after the first month, no one attempted to meet him. And he rather preferred it that way. This life of quiet solitude by the sea was precisely what he needed after such chaos in his life. Although he'd never experienced anything quite like it, he found he liked the simple life of living off what you needed alone, and enjoying pleasures with no complications; no problems.

That was, of course, except the issue of his wife...

Erik stared at him reflection in the mirror hanging across the room. For the better part of the past year and a half, he had been not Erik, but a stranger named Benjamin Persson, his alleged wife a Christine Persson. They'd lived peacefully, no more disturbances since they'd fled the bed and breakfast outside Stockholm, in fact. Yes, he'd watched the news carefully, but stories concerning himself, Christine, and Inspector Miford had slowly trickled away, until there were none to be found. He assumed Sweden could easily forget the two Parisian convicts, for they'd never surfaced, and never directly affected anyone they knew.

Erik could not help but notice with a gentle, indifferent eye how healthy Christine seemed within months of living by the sea. He could easily understand what returning to one's homeland can do for one's health, not to mention the sea itself. During the warmer months, Christine had swam, waded, or walked along the beach, her feet bare. As had been imprinted upon Erik at a young age in the gypsy camps, the sea had mystical, marvelous healing properties, which humans were not meant to understand, only appreciate. He'd never really understood until he'd seen the effect the ocean had made on Christine.

Underneath it all, however, he had to admit to detecting a layer of unease...it was an odd thing; he couldn't be sure of what it was composed of. Grief, of course, and anger likely, as well, but there was more to it than that. She was almost wandering, searching, but for what, he did not know.

In any case, the seclusion had given her time to think, which he knew was imperative to mental health in general, but especially when one was grieving. He knew she had not entirely come to terms with Raoul's death, nor could he expect her to. He had no doubt that her healing would have came at a much quicker pace if it had not been he who'd stripped the life from her lover. But that was not for him to know of. What he'd done was done.

But as Christine pondered the death of her lover and how her life had changed, Erik had had time of his own to think of his own sins, his own past, and loves, and losses, and he'd begun to forgive both himself and others. Perhaps he'd even begun to forgive whatever hand had forged his demonic face, after so many years.

He thought of the lives he had ended and ruined, and repented each a million times over. For the first time, he felt true guilt over his time in Persia; sometimes it was so crippling that he simply lay in bed during the day and accepted it. It was his punishment, his penance.

More, even, than his time in Persia, Erik thought of when he'd killed the vicomte, the most painful memory of all. He remembered the expression on Christine's face; the look in the boy's eyes as he drew his final breath; how helpless and overpowered he'd felt as he did it, how out of control of his own actions and thoughts; how his madness and emotions had overcome him in the ugliest way possible, at long last. He'd sensed it coming for some while, he only didn't know how it would.

Before, when he imagined killing the boy, he never imagined he'd feel anything beyond victory. He know saw how wrong he was about himself. In a way he was grateful that he had been, for through his incorrectness, he was coming to learn that he did indeed have a heart; though it had been long stagnant, it now felt and pulsed with life, and he would never trade it for his former coldness, though at some times, feeling was even more painful to bear.

Once, late in the night he'd been tossing and turning in his bed, fully awake though he knew he should sleep. The guilt of the boy's death had seized his mind and body in a relentless grip. In desperation, he remembered prayer from his childhood, the verses branded into his mind still, just as strongly as how to read music or which catacombs led to where. In his mind, he recited the Act of Contrition. It did not help.

He lay in agony a few moments more, before of its own accord, his mind began a conversation with the boy himself, begging him to forgive, telling him Christine was safe in his house, and all other manner of things he'd wanted to assure the boy for some time, though he never would have admitted it to anyone, not even himself. He did not speak to him through God, nor in any structured verse, and he knew neither his mother nor Father Mansart would approve, but he did not care. It was was felt right, even if the boy never really would hear his words.

Erik would like to say he was a changed man, yet...he wasn't. He really was the same person: same caustic attitude when he wanted it, same brilliance, same craft. The only difference was he now felt. He could call it all Fate. In a strange, celestial way, it seemed as if Christine and the boy had helped him along this path. It was a notion he'd grasp fully one instant, then the next, not understand at all, like someone abruptly blowing out a luminously burning candle. After his comprehension was stolen, Erik would simply brush the hunch off as momentary foolishness.

In any case, he'd come to terms with who he was, at long last, and accepted that he could never be loved in the way he loved Christine. Of course, this was no easy fact to face, but he faced it nonetheless and grew used to it. Once it was dealt with, he was free to face the fresh possibilities of this new life. Christine was obviously flourishing in this environment, even despite her grief, which pleased him. He dared to hope that perhaps they could lead a life of quiet companionship, at least until he passed on, when she'd be free to do as she wished. That might even be necessary, in fact, to maintain their cover and safety. However, such a friendship could be difficult to achieve when Christine barely spoke to him in any manner beside cool politeness.

Starting only in the last month, they'd begun to take meals together, though largely in silence. Even so, Erik felt blessed to be in her company, to be allowed to gaze upon her newfound health across the small dining table and smile softly to himself, for he'd at least been able to nurse her somewhat back to decency after shattering her world to pieces.

As the aroma of cooking meat wafted throughout the kitchen, Erik heard the patter of Christine's slippered feet upon the stairs, followed by the soft hush of her dressing gown which just grazed the floor. Odd, that she was up so early, let alone that she was coming downstairs when she knew full well he was there. Just as Erik usually rose early, Christine made a habit of rising late after performing a full toilet.

Her form materialized in the entranceway. He gazed wordlessly at the soft curve of her belly through the material of her nightgown, her pale hands hanging limply at her sides, her golden curls cascading down her shoulders, unbound. She was beautiful. But when he met her cerulean eyes, he knew something was amiss. Beneath them were light pouches of charcoal, and he knew she'd not slept.

"Up so early?" he breathed into the crisp morning air.

"Yes," she said hoarsely, not moving to take a seat.

"Not much sleep last night, I assume," he ventured, to his horror, a bit patronizingly.

She hadn't missed that. "No," she snapped. "I couldn't sleep, so many thoughts were in my mind...so many questions." She softened ever so slightly, to a degree so small that anyone else would have missed it. "Erik, I have so many questions to ask you."

This took him a bit aback, as he'd assumed the last thing she'd wanted to do was spend any time discussing any matter with him.

"Ask away," he said after a moment. "It's the least I can offer."

She hesitated, then continued on. "Why have you stayed with me?"

He tensed, and turned from her to tend to the bacon without responding.

"I mean it not as anything but general curiosity."

He considered a moment. "You wouldn't have been safe on your own, Christine."

"What do you mean?"

"Alone, in a new town where no one knows you, and meanwhile in France you are wanted by the police? You'd never know what to do if someone caught scent of your whereabouts...I've been through this before...I know."

"I suppose so. But Erik, do you really suppose we can carry on as if nothing's happened?" She was incredulous.

He said nothing.

"Too much has transpired between us to simply ignore it all. We cannot pretend to be perfectly civil, or even polite, when there are so many things unsaid."

"Neither can we simply begin to discuss these things when we've barely spoken since that night," he finally replied sharply.

"But Erik, we must someday," she cried. "Someday soon. I've thought of Raoul these past months...I've thought of how he died...I've mourned him, and the life we could have had." She paused for a moment, and it was clear to Erik that she still missed the poor boy terribly. It made his heart ache for her. "But there is a whole other piece to the puzzle which I cannot work out on my own, which involves you. I can never be content again until this is all worked out and behind me."

"That can never happen," he said flatly.

"Of course it can!"

"Of all the horrors I've encountered, none have ever ceased to haunt me."

"Don't speak to me of horrors," she said icily.

Coming from anyone else, these words would have enraged him. But coming from Christine, the woman he loved, yet the woman to whom he'd handed sorrow upon sorrow with no thought of it, how could he say anything? How could he argue?

"Soon, Erik," she continued after a moment of weighted silence. "Today. Please. Put my mind to rest."

Finally, he nodded.


	9. Chapter Eight

**A/N: **I know, it's about time I updated, those of you who read this story. I apologize earnestly. Please enjoy.

**Chapter Eight**

So they talked that day, for hours, from breakfast, to dinner, to supper, to sundown. It was difficult at first, as they'd scarcely spoken in the past eighteen months, especially not of anything important. They started off discussing trivial things like the weather or the sea, all the while the impending serious conversation weighing on both their minds.

Gradually they made their way from the kitchen to the front porch which looked out onto the sea. They'd sat silently a moment, simply watching the waves crash to the sand, recede, then crash again, until Christine spoke.

"Erik...why did you kill Raoul?"

In a way she thought she already knew the answer, and felt a bit foolish for even asking him such a thing. She expected him to reply that he hated him, that he wanted her all to himself. But she was wrong.

She watched his masked face carefully. The shield of ebony silk protected his thoughts and feelings from anyone who might be curious, as she was, and left his visage a vague, emotionless field of blankness. It had frightened her at times, but now it only annoyed her, as her main goal was to understand him, so she could understand and heal herself.

After a few moments of stillness, to her shock she spotted a tear, unaccompanied at first, trickle down beneath the material of the mask, past his malformed lips, down his thin neck.

Erik, the omnipotent Opera Ghost, the mysterious Angel of Music, the Trapdoor Lover, the Angel of Death, wept before her, and for someone other than himself.

He met her eyes, then turned quickly away. Her gaze had burned him, and now he wept even more passionately.

_Could it be he's remorseful?_

"Erik..." She touched his arm just barely, and he crumpled further. From there, she allowed him to weep out his sorrows and guilt. Occasionally he'd breathe, "I'm so sorry, Christine."

Abruptly, after some time, he stopped. And as if it had been waiting long on call, his tale spilled from his lips, the sorrowful events of his past retold by his eloquent tongue.

He spoke first of his mother, briefly of his time in the gypsy camp, then of his sojourn in Rome, an edited version of his years in Persia, of his wanderings through Europe, his assistance in building the opera house, and finally his descent into seclusion.

He told her of his obsession with her in those times, his reasoning behind his impersonation of her Angel of Music, his plans for her after the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_, had she not removed his mask for all to see.

And finally, he recalled the emotions that had driven him to killing the vicomte, and the madness of that night. He explained how it was not jealousy that had pushed him to that point, but anger, most of it at himself. He said it felt almost as if it was not entirely of his own power that he killed the boy, and what a strange sensation it had been, as if he were on the outside watching. He told her how sorry he was, and began to weep again as he vowed he deserved nothing from her, and how he had no further mission in life now than to protect her.

They lapsed into silence as he continued to weep quietly. It had not been easy, telling her the mangled inner workings of his mind during that time. He was ashamed of what he'd done and how he'd tried to justify it, but he'd owed her the truth.

Christine stared off into the sea, silent tears streaming down her cheeks, but who they were for, she knew not. Never before had she felt so utterly torn, not even when Raoul had courted her and implored her to run away with him, run from Erik. In her heart, her first impulse was to forgive this man for everything he'd ever done to her. He'd manipulated her, lied to her, controlled her, but as he wept so poignantly at her side for the death of a man she was sure he'd once hated, she could not deny his true remorse and true apology.

Arguments she'd once used against herself resurfaced once more.

_He loves me so...he only doesn't know how to show it._

_He's been alone all his life. Surely I could at least offer him companionship._

_He killed only to defend himself. He knows the error of his ways._

_He is -- at least was -- not mentally stable..._

But now, however, she could not deny a significant change in his attitudes. Several months living among others, though still in reasonable seclusion, with her at his side had done him a world of good. He wasn't quite so thin and waxen, nor was his hair so thin or lackluster. Though she was no expert in such matters, Christine would dare say he'd become more sound of mind since they'd left, as well. He no longer stayed awake for many days at a time, and ate regular meals, even if they were small.

Save, of course, his mask, abnormally long, thin fingers, and disturbingly sharp mind, one might take him for a normal man. If not for the horrid circumstances of their shared lodging, he might have even been comfortable to live with, which truly amazed Christine, given not only their shared story, but his own personal antecedents.

Could it be that, under that fearsome exterior, there dwelled a normal man? A potential friend, brother, father, even lover?

It was a notion she'd before toyed with, attempted with all her strength to whole-heartedly believe in the time after he'd exposed himself as but a man to her, before _Don Juan_. She'd taken pity on him, and tried her best to indulge him and treat him as if he were any other man. She told herself everyday that he _was _like any other man, but she'd never really been able to take it seriously, until now...

And yet, there was a part of her that never wanted to forgive him. He'd destroyed her happy future with her childhood sweetheart, obliterated the peaceful life they could have led together, their possible children and everything else. Her final dreams of stability and normality had been murdered along with poor, dear Raoul.

_Perhaps I'm not meant for a normal life_, she thought, with no emotion in particular. _Erik certainly wasn't..._

The question that had haunted widows and would-be fiancées for ages crossed her thoughts: would it be dishonoring him if I...?

_Would it be dishonoring him if I only spoke to Erik, and made things less awkward and cold between us, if we are to reside together? There is nothing more that he can say than he's sorry...and he is...I can truly tell. Though that does not bring Raoul back to me, it's all he can offer._

Another favorite: wouldn't he want me to be happy?

_Wouldn't Raoul want me to be happy? And safe? I'll be safest with Erik...he knows the full history and how to deal with these things...but how can I live with my fiancé's killer, even if he will keep me safe, and even if he is sorry?_

Christine buried her face in her hands. She did not know. She honestly had no answers for any of these questions.

She knew she'd be asking herself these things for some time come...perhaps for the rest of her life.


	10. Chapter Nine

**A/N: **I hate it when authors don't update for several months...yet I do the same thing. Resolution: I will update every week from now on; I really have no excuse since this story is already finished. Please forgive me, and enjoy.**  
**

**Chapter Nine**

From that day on, warmth entered Erik's life for the first time since Giovanni. It was slight, but even a small amount made a stark contrast to what he was used to. He understood not what Christine was thinking, but since that night, they'd spent more platonic, comfortable time together, reading silently together in the parlor, sitting on the porch watching the sea and talking, walking in town before dawn, when scarcely anyone else was awake. The latter of these activities was rare, given Christine's acquired sleeping pattern. Even when they did walk, Christine would return to bed when they'd finished, a fact upon which Erik couldn't help but smirk.

But Erik's favorite times were when they sang together, sometimes with accompaniment, sometimes without. Whichever the case, and whatever they sang, it was as magical as he'd remembered, sometimes even more so. It was the sweetest gift he ever could have asked her for, simply to hear her beautiful voice again.

He'd once asked her if she ever missed music, and she'd replied yes, that music had so long calmed her soul, and she needed it very much in this time. So, in both of their benefits, once a day he would allow her into his music room for an hour or two. They'd work on scales and arpeggios, he would critique and correct her on technique and style, then they'd move onto what they both looked forward to the most: a few solo pieces, followed by one or two duets. Just as before, their voices had harmonized and soared seamlessly.

As for Christine's part, she'd done her best to ignore the burning questions which were omnipresent in her mind. To her surprise, amid the distraction of spending more time with Erik, it was not so difficult. She acted on her instincts; to so was entirely natural, and subsequently, she was quite comfortable in talking with him.

They sometimes discussed the difficult times of their past, what they'd been thinking, why, and when. Other times they discussed personal quirks and habits, and took a bit of joy in laughing at each other, or, much more rarely for Erik, at themselves. They did not always understand the other, but even when they could not, they did their best to identify, or at the very least, empathize.

Erik had never felt such acceptance. Christine had never felt such freedom of speech, and such reciprocal special attention.

What surprised Christine the most (but what surprised Erik even more) was that what they had was growing into almost a regular, functional friendship, even despite the trauma of their past. This was not to say those issues were ignored; in fact, they were a favorite, albeit involved topic of the evenings, just after the sun had set.

Through much difficulty, awkwardness, fear, shame, and tears eventually they'd discussed nearly every detail of their intricate, ambiguous history. Every detail, that was, except Erik's love for Christine. It was too hard, too shameful, it was simply not spoken of. However, the more and more open they became with each other, and the more time they spent doing so (especially for Erik's benefit), the more the forbidden topic began to hang over their heads, constantly mocking them, daring them to bring it up, especially Christine.

The more she grew to know all else about Erik, the more she began to know his beautiful mind, the more she wanted to know of his heart. Part of it was honest curiosity of his fascinating thoughts and reasonings, but another, perhaps larger part was pure feminine vanity. It began to drive her mad, a new set of questions; whether he still loved her, why he'd loved her in the first place, or, in retrospect, if he ever truly had, if his love for her had just been an impressive illusion of his sickened mind.

Whenever they'd been speaking and a silence was born, the words seemed to be on the tip of her tongue. What words? Any which involved his love. She knew that one day she'd regret this fixation, this morbid curiosity. But that day came sooner than later.

It was after a full, pleasant day of lunch at the beach, numerous walks along the shore, and singing songs to each other they'd known and loved since their childhood. They were partaking in a light supper before retiring. Erik took little, only a few sips of red wine and a few grapes. Christine had compiled a plate of cold ham and cheese for herself, but found she could not partake in one bite of it.

They were coming...they were out before she could stop them.

"Erik, do you still love me?"

-------------

Inspector Miford had become a very stressed man in the past eighteen months. A series of foul tips, all from different Swedish men, had led him on a wild goose chase through Sweden, Norway, and even a bit into Russia. As the case grew more and more frustrating, Miford had seen his wife and slept increasingly less and drank more. He'd devoted most of his free time to teaching himself every bit of Swedish that he could handle.

Each time he returned to Paris to wait for another possible answer to his problems, his colleagues, concerned expressions on their faces, had earnestly implored him to give it up. But they didn't understand that with each faux clue, Miford only became more intrigued, _obsessed_, with the mystery of the Opera Ghost and Christine Daae. All other cases that normally he would have jumped at the chance to take, he passed to one of the deputies. He couldn't be bothered with such trivialness.

He knew his wife was worrying about him. When they passed in the hall or on the rare occasion that he took a meal in the kitchen, she would make comments about how pale he looked, and ask if he was getting enough sleep. He'd brush her questions off. He had no time to appease her, not when there was such a case to be solved. Sometimes when she spoke of his failing health, he'd simply look at her, challenging her to mention the investigation, but she never did.

Presently, he sat at his study, freshly back from Stockholm for the second time. A glass of bourbon clenched in his hand, he'd just told his wife to leave him in peace when she'd asked him to come to bed. He was far too busy for sleep; too busy poring over a map of Sweden, hunting for _someplace _he hadn't searched yet. Something in him said that, despite many fruitless journeys, the runaways hid in Sweden.

If he hadn't believed the Opera Ghost truly was just that, he did now, for it was eluding him as only a specter could, the girl in tow. Yes, Miford was quite sure he was at odds with supernatural forces now. He'd been a fool to ever tell himself otherwise.

He drained his glass, and was about to turn away from the map when a small clusters of towns just south of Kalmat caught his eye. There were about three of them, none of which he'd been to yet. How could he have been such a fool?

In perverse happiness, a low chuckle rumbled deep in his throat, slowly making his way up his throat and exploding forth through his lips. His laughter filled the study.

He had them!

"I _have _them!" he said aloud.

He'd leave in the morning.


	11. Chapter Ten

**A/N: **Hello, all. Yay for keeping promises. Just a brief note. I will be leaving for an extended vacation tomorrow; therefore, I'm not certain when I will have access to the Internet again. However, rest assured that the second I do find access, I will update this story. Please enjoy.

**Chapter Ten**

They both froze, Erik with the wine glass halfway from the table to his lips. Had he imagined what he'd just heard, or had he simply heard her wrong? From the corner of his eye he observed her expression in hopes of it giving him some hint as to the reality. Her eyes were wide and glued on his face, or the mask, rather. She was tense, her hands clamped on the table and her chest barely moving, as if she held her breath. As soon as she felt his gaze she torn hers away.

So, she had asked him that.

He'd never imagined she would summon the courage to ask him that, or even consider it. What was worse, in his surprise, he had no idea how to respond. He wasn't even quite certain of the answer.

Surely, he had loved her before. His mind was clouded, his heart was confused, but in some twisted way, he had loved her very deeply. After he'd killed the vicomte, his emotions, amazingly, had become secondary to hers. For the first time in his life, he'd lived unselfishly, always wondering how Christine felt, or how what he did would affect her. Did he appreciate her for teaching him to live this way? Of course. Did he _love _her for it? If someone like him was capable of love, which he was beginning to see he was, then yes, he did love her for it.

What she'd taught him was invaluable. Through her, he'd learned that he could unselfishly care for another human being, never with any expectations nor malice, only a quiet eagerness to please her as best he could. Because of her, he'd learned he had a heart, that he was not simply an unfeeling mass of flesh and sinew, but that he was indeed meant to love, and perhaps even be loved. How could he not love her when she'd given him such precious knowledge?

But...was he in love with her? He knew this was what she truly wanted to know.

He considered. He had tried his best never to think of her in that way over the past months, trying his best only to see her in a platonic light. Subsequently, so long smothered, his ardor for her, although not unfamiliar, seemed far too embarrassing to speak of, especially to her. It was an odd sensation, as before, he could have told her of his love for hours on end. But now, he had leaned good grace, tact...he'd learned that no matter how much he wailed of his passion and cried of his love, it would never make her see him in that way. He'd learned that neither he nor anyone else could ever gain love through pity, nor through control, either.

And now, after he'd told himself these things numerous times, she was asking him to tell her of it once more? She wanted to hear it? Why?

"Why do you want to know?" he asked finally.

There was a pregnant pause.

"It's the only thing you haven't spoken of," she said quietly, withdrawing from him, as his refusal to answer had surprised her.

"It is in the past. That is why."

"Not to me. I cannot stop wondering. I am wise enough now to appreciate it a bit better. Please, Erik."

He could never deny anything she asked, and what was more, she'd likely realized that by now.

He considered once more. When he'd looked at Christine before, every molecule in his body had seemed to warm, his heart had filled with gladness, followed by the bitter taste of jealousy. Jealousy, and the knowledge that no matter how kind, or harsh he was to her, it would all be in vain, for she would never be his. He knew she belonged to the world of light.

And now? He looked at her, truly looked at her. He noticed every small detail about her face; how she was gently biting her bottom lip in apprehension, how blue, wide and clear her eyes were, how a few golden tresses had escaped from her loose chignon. The longer he looked, the more warmth he felt, the more joyous. He waited for the sting of jealousy to taint him, but there was none, and somehow within his heart he knew that even had the vicomte still been alive, even had they been wed, he would look at her and feel the very same way.

His eyes filled with tears as the realization hit him. He loved her now, he truly and fully did. Like a child playing with a brand new toy, seeing how well it worked, Erik began testing his own gift. He imagined that Christine had left him, married another and started a family of her own, never giving him a second thought. It hurt him, to be true, but he also found, miraculously, that he felt no hypothetical need to obliterate this family of hers, not even to contact her and remind her that he existed, disturbing her peace. He found that he only wished her the happiest she could be.

Again he imagined that he and Christine would live together until the end of his days, enjoying a full though platonic relationship to the end. Christine would never see him as a potential lover, though he would continue loving her endlessly. He found he could imagine little else that was sweeter. It was all he could ever dream of.

"Yes, Christine," he whispered. "I do love you. Very much so."

Christine fought not to let her expression change, but somehow she knew her eyes had softened, and perhaps even glistened with tears. She had not expected to feel much, whatever his answer would be, but to her surprise she felt a sense of pride within her...no, more than that. A sense of relief, of contentment.

She turned away as if she'd been slapped. How could she be glad that another man loved her when he was the man who'd killed Raoul?

_Oh, dear Raoul, he must be turning in his grave!_

Erik immediately stiffened. He rose sharply from the table, and Christine turned involuntarily toward him. By now, silent tears were streaming down her cheeks, which only served to further enrage him.

"Don't ask for the truth, _dear, _if you cannot handle it," he spat hideously.

She too rose from the table. "Erik," she whimpered, "you don't understand..."

"Then make me!"

"I can't...only know that I don't cry because you love me...I hope I haven't made you feel as if your love is a horrible thing." She paled at the realization. "Oh, Erik," she cried, scrambling to stand before him, "I didn't mean that at all. Any woman who would turn your love away is a fool."

Her words spilled from her lips before she even had a moment to phrase them eloquently, before she'd checked them for tact and honor for Raoul.

He scoffed. "Then you must be a fool."

"I _was_, Erik," she whispered.

It took them both a moment to realize the weight of her words, but they did in the very same instant, and in that instant, their gazes met, and they simply stared into each other's eyes for moment, or perhaps for an eternity. In that amount of time, all unanswered questions were answered, all unspoken words were spoken. And suddenly, staring was not enough. They grasped for each other with ravenous hunger neither knew the other was feeling, and never let go.

That night nothing mattered, not that he'd killed Raoul, not that she'd been planning to run away and not even say goodbye, not that they were never meant to be together. Perhaps this was what made them need each other so. All that mattered was that they loved one another, consequences be damned.

Though as Erik carried her up the stairs, somewhere in Christine's deep subconscious, she knew she'd regret it all eventually. But she couldn't care; all reason left her when his hideous, misshapen lips met her perfect ones.


	12. Chapter Eleven

** A/N**: Well, looks like I'm updating on time. Hooray. Enjoy.

**  
Chapter Eleven**

Later that night, Erik lay beside Christine in silence, his body curled intimately around hers by course of natural chance. He didn't know if she wanted him to be so close to her, or if she wanted him to hold her, or if she wanted him to leave, or if she even cared what he did. He didn't know if she regretted what they'd done, or if it even made a difference in her life.

She'd removed his mask before she'd allowed him to touch her. Initially, he felt discomfort in exposing himself so completely before her, especially when he recalled the last time she'd seen his face, but then she'd kissed him, and all was forgotten.

The room, only moments before full of sighs, cries, and whispered names, was entirely still...until her broken sobs shattered the quiet.

Now he had no idea at all of what to do. On instinct he leaned and placed a comforting kiss on her cheek and held her closer to him, which only proved to make her weep more passionately.

His blood ran a bit cold then. Obviously he was not wanted here. Obviously he'd made a horrible misstep in judgement, and obviously she wanted nothing more to do with him.

He rose from the bed and collected his clothing from the ground, all the while his world being colored redder and redder. He pulled on his trousers, then his shirtsleeves, then most importantly, his mask. He'd been a fool ever to let it go, in more ways than one. He'd laid his heart, his very soul out to her, let her know everything about him, and made himself entirely vulnerable. All he got in return were scornful tears of shame and regret.

As he dressed, her sobs had turned to near wails, and he crossed the room quickly in disgust and hurt. Before slamming the door behind him, he called, "Deepest apologies, mademoiselle."

Even though they were spoken by such a beautiful voice, Christine had never heard uglier words.

-------------

Miford had bid farewell to an extremely distraught wife early in the morning to catch his third train to Kalmat. She'd protested, of course, even reduced herself to tears over it, but Miford had no time to comfort her. The train left at ten o'clock.

His policeman's clairvoyance told him that this would be his final trip devoted to the Opera Ghost, though out of complete desperation or out of victory, he was unsure. Either way, it was a relief to know, and he couldn't help but hope for the latter of the eventualities.

The train didn't seem to move quickly enough as he calculated the time it would take him to reach and search each of the three small sea towns. Given their size and assumable layout, Miford knew they couldn't take too long, perhaps a day, with a day's travel in between each. Seven days, approximately, was all he had before he'd be finished with this, one way or another.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

Several days later, Miford had reached the first of his three towns, this one only a few kilometers due South of Kalmat. Exiting the coach, his single suitcase in hand, he first checked into an inn and booked himself a room for that night. Once that was settled, he set himself to asking around for any masked men who might live in the town.

The first person he asked was a docile old woman sitting on a bench outside the inn. She'd only seemed confused at his question, and replied that she was waiting for her husband. Miford noticed there was no wedding ring on her finger. He thanked her anyway and moved along.

The next person he asked was a young girl, one of many in a small, gossiping group on a street corner. When he asked about a masked man, her posse reacted sooner than she did, in a mixture of giggles and gasps. The girl turned to one of her companions and whispered to her behind a cupped hand before responding, "Our fathers know of a masked man, who -- "

She was cut off by the girl standing next to her. "Who never trades with anyone, though he claims to be an established merchant!"

"Every time someone does try to trade, his stableboy Karl -- " the name brought another round of giggles, and Miford noticed the first girl's cheeks were flushed " -- answers the door and says his 'master' has nothing for them!"

"Yes, yes, where does man live?" Miford managed in polite Swedish, though the exhilaration of victory close at hand was beginning to intoxicate him.

A third girl replied this time, the only one who hadn't been giggling mindlessly along with the others. She gestured to a far off house close to the seashore, isolated from town and any close-by neighbors. "There is where he and his wife live."

_Wife?_

Miford hurriedly thanked the girls and set off toward the house on foot, too determined to wait for a free cab. Silently he added a fraudulent marriage to his mental list of their crimes.

_I _have _them._

-------------

Christine could not bear to go downstairs to eat, though she was fairly certain Erik was not in the kitchen. Knowing him, he'd likely shut himself up in his private music room, a room where he'd never allowed her to tread but which he'd frequently used in the past. Leaving the room would make things too real. She'd have no way of telling herself that none of it had happened if she faced the morning to find it was not like any of the others, that Erik would not be in the kitchen waiting for her with a smile and kind words. Perhaps he never would be again.

She'd not wept last night for what they'd done, though it was clear now that Erik did not understand that. What they'd done had been beautifully forbidden...ethereal while it had lasted, before she'd had to realize the consequences. She'd explored every part of that body so tortured, and he'd responded in kind. When they'd come together, there had been exquisite pain, far worse than she'd expected, but with his gentle coaxing, she'd eventually been repaid with exquisite pleasure.

Afterwards, though, was when the thoughts came. As Erik lay beside her, tense and unsure, Christine remembered her girlish fantasies of her and Raoul's wedding night, and how different this had been, in more ways than one. Then, inevitably, it dawned on her that it was over: she'd committed the ultimate betrayal, and in her eyes, subsequently joined the ranks of the evilest women imaginable. She'd wept, Erik had misunderstood and left before she could explain. She slept alone after many hours of tossing and turning.

Thus drew to a close what should have been a night of wonder, warmth and love.

Christine rose from the bed and pulled on a clean nightgown to maintain at least some semblance of modesty. In the drawer beneath it, she found a small cotton pouch, within it two rings that she'd refused to look at in some time. One, a plain gold band; the other, a heavy, slightly pretentious diamond one; one representing a simple, yet oddly artistic life; the other representing a life any poor girl would dream of, a life of feasts, beautiful gowns, and summer homes. She now had neither. Without thinking of what she did, she slid them both onto her wedding finger, a perfect representation of her mindset at the moment.

Just then, a sharp, urgent knock came upon the door. She froze. It was not often that they had callers; actually, she wasn't sure if they ever had. She'd never greeted one, anyway, though perhaps Erik had made sure of that personally. Could it be Erik himself? Perhaps he'd left the house and Karl had locked the door behind him this morning on his way to the market, leaving Erik with no way back in.

Christine pictured the scene for a moment: he surly, disheveled and hung over, she drawn and sleepless, a thin nightgown scarcely concealing hips which bore his bruises. At the thought, she donned her robe as well, when the knock came again, bringing her back to her current task.

Perhaps it was someone else...? Whomever it was, Christine realized she had no choice but to answer. They seemed too persistent to leave her in peace.

She descended the stairs and opened the front door to find a wan-looking man whom she vaguely recognized...but from where?

Her lips parted to ask, "Can I help you?" as Erik burst forth from the music room and cried, "Christine, don't answer the door!" not realizing he was too late, and that the caller had heard his words.

Before she knew what was happening, the encroacher muscled his way through the door and slammed it closed behind him.

"So," he hissed, "I finally meet the infamous Opera Ghost face to face."


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

It was a standstill; Miford triumphant, Erik enraged, Christine utterly confused. It wasn't until he pulled a badge from his lapel that she realized the graveness of her mistake. Her jaw dropped in spite of herself, and she cowered against the wall.

"Inspector Gaston Miford of the Paris Police. Christine Daae, you are wanted for the murder of Raoul de Chagny. But I'm sure you already know that. And...you," he turned to Erik, willing not to let his embarrassment for lack of proper name spoil his victory. He opened his mouth to continue, but the man (man?) bore down on him with such contempt, superiority and malice that he had to turn back to the woman, who was now in tears.

"Not to mention," he continued, struggling to regain his footing, "evasion of the police for a year and a half. Christine Daae, you and you companion are under arrest."

Christine knew not whether to dissolve into a sobbing heap at his feet, as she wanted to, or reason with him as she imagined one should, but was not sure she could manage to. Luckily, she did not have to do either, for Erik spoke up, his voice rich and velvety as if this were a simple gathering among friends.

"What evidence do you have against us?"

Miford faltered. Especially after the first year, colleagues had never failed to point out the lack of concrete evidence in the case, a point which he'd waved away as invalid and trivial. But now...? Now what could he do? What could he say?

The more Christine considered, the more she found the significance of Erik's question. What proof, true, solid proof, did anyone have against them? They'd left only Raoul's body. The house by the lake, in theory, could have belonged to anyone. The legend of the Opera Ghost was just that -- a legend -- and could never hold up as reasonable evidence.

Christine returned from her thoughts to find Miford rambling about sightings of the Opera Ghost; Erik countered that such sightings were done by either foolish ballet rats or senile old bats, and everyone knew that, and beside, what the devil did the Opera Ghost have anything to do with him? Simply that he wore a mask meant nothing. What evidence did anyone have of the Opera Ghost _existing_, anyway?

And suddenly an idea hatched in Christine's mind, one that she was almost certain could pull them from the trap of the inspector forevermore.

_No one could ever prove the plot of _Don Juan_...Erik had had the only copy of the full script; others had only been assigned what pertained to them...which did not include _"The Point of No Return." _For all they knew..._

Yes! She was quite sure that if she carried out her plan, he'd have no honest choice but to believe her and let them be. The only snare of his idea was that carrying it out would shatter all ties to Raoul that she had...if she still had any, that was, after the previous night.

_Safety or honor? Lies or silence?_

And the hardest of them all.

_Raoul...or Erik?_

That was when she heard it, and looking back, she couldn't be quite certain of whether she truly had, or his voice was simply a figment of her imagination; a true message from another world, or simply what she wanted to hear.

Above Erik and the inspector's arguing came Raoul's voice, almost a whisper, but clear just the same. "Christine, be happy...be safe...don't worry about me."

Then it was gone as quickly as it had come. Naturally, she wished to cry, or ask him more, or simply absorb the sacredness of what she'd heard, but she knew that with his blessing, he'd wanted her to act now.

"Monsieur Miford," she cried over the two men's voices, her voice coolness personified. She even sounded a bit annoyed. "Why have you come here to bother my husband and I?"

"Husband?" he spat.

"Husband?" he breathed.

_Husband._

"Yes, husband," she powered on. "I don't know what you've heard, but I am Erik's wife."

"That's all well and good," replied the inspector after a moment of stunned silence, "but that does not explain what happened the night of _Don Juan Triumphant._"

"Then I will, so we can get on with our lives. My husband composed _Don Juan Triumphant_, despite the various claims that the 'Opera Ghost' had. All silly lies. People only said so because my husband sports a mask to cloak his deformity, just as, according to those who have _seen _him, the Ghost did. Rubbish.

"In the opera, Aminta was intended to be kidnapped by Don Juan at the end of their duet. My husband had told me he'd felt the makeup of the actor was a bit risqué, but he'd gone through with it anyway. Just as he'd feared, the audience had been alarmed, thinking it was the Ghost or what have you, and that I was really being kidnapped. We went through with the scene as usual, but it became clear that no one was in any mood to see the rest of the performance. My husband took me away from France to wait for the gossip to die down."

Miford looked suspicious, yet beneath that, increasingly distraught. Erik looked dumbstruck.

"And Raoul de Chagny?"

She swallowed hard and pursed her lips silently before responding.

"I can't help you with that, Inspector. I...I barely knew the man."

Miford closed his eyes a moment, willing it all to go away. It all made perfect sense, which usually was not enough to satisfy him, but given his own entire lack of evidence, well...

The anonymous tipsters could very well have just been seeking a reward, and the first tip of Stockholm had been entirely valid; the man had sold the pair their tickets to escape, not from incarceration, but from bad publicity and chaos for both of them.

Could it be his life's devotion of the past months was an entire waste?

"Why was the character masked and deformed?" he barked suddenly, the rest of his question, "like you," hanging in the air. "It seems a bit too coincidental."

"Not at all," replied Erik smoothly, and Christine mentally thanked the heavens, for she knew not how to answer that.

"I intended to show the audience that deformed men, too, can be normal men. That they too...can be loved. I see now that society is not yet mature enough to accept that. I could not stand the public ridicule and countless questions, so I took my wife away."

"What proof do I have that you are truly wed?"

Christine fought not to let her panic show on her face.

_Proof...proof..._

It hit her.

She held up her left hand, its ring finger bearing two bands. She neared the Inspector so he could better see. "My engagement ring, the plain one, and my wedding ring, the bejeweled one. They compliment each other so well, I prefer to wear them together." The inspector looked defeated.

She crossed the floor to stand before Erik. Looking into his golden eyes, now glowing with admiration, she begged him to trust her.

With that, she removed his mask. Holding it at her side, she raised herself onto her tiptoes and kissed him, long and true.

His chest muscles were tense beneath her free hand, but he soon relaxed when her hand came to rest over his heart, silently imploring him to do the same. Only when he did so did she pull away and hand him back his mask.

Turning to the inspector, still within Erik's reach, she said, "Monsieur, I don't know what more proof I can offer."

* * *

**A/N: **Epilogue still to come 


	15. Epilogue

**A/N:** I want to offer my hearty thanks to everyone who has read this story, especially those who have blessed me with reviews. I hope you all enjoyed, and that you'll check out some of my other work. -- Chels**  
**

* * *

**Epilogue**

Gaston Miford returned to Paris after that momentous falter. He shut himself into his chambers for many days and nights, not speaking to anyone until one morning, when he came to breakfast and told his wife he was retiring. She was pleased.

Erik and Christine were wed several years later, once both Erik and Christine's worries and fears were put to rest. They lived eighteen years more in comfortable harmony, loving each other in every way possible before Erik passed away. Christine never told him what she'd heard the day the inspector had come.

Christine never forgot him, nor her first betrothed, and went on loving them both even after her death thirty six years after Erik's. They were buried with very small ceremonies in a small patch of land near the sea.

Of the three of them, neither Christine, Raoul, nor Erik had known until their deaths that their paths had been destined to cross long before they were even born. Erik caused Raoul to risk everything for the one he loved, committing the ultimate act of bravery. Raoul caused Christine to learn that two people can share your heart, in two very different ways. Christine caused Erik to learn to love and realize that he could be loved in return. Upon Christine's death, everything between them was at peace.

Though no one knows who or how or why, if one were to visit that beach at night in that small sea town south of Kalmat, some swear you can hear, if you listen closely enough, the resonating echo of two angel's voices perfectly entwined.

_Fin_


End file.
